A King's ransom

by James Grippando

  “Is it the rainy season?” I asked, wiping the raindrops from my chin.

  “October and November can be pretty wet in Bogota,” said Alex.

  I thought of my poor dad braving the elements, assuming he was anywhere near Bogota. Assuming he was in Colombia, for that matter. With all the time that had elapsed, he could have been taken just about anywhere.

  It took us longer to climb this time, better than ninety minutes nonstop. The rain was falling harder as we neared the church at the top. Muddy brown water was running downhill in the gutters. The vendor stands that catered to tourists were locked and closed. We chose a table in the picnic grounds behind the church and rigged up an umbrella to keep the radio dry. Alex and I worked in silence. It was becoming a routine, one that I definitely wouldn’t miss when this was finally over.

  I checked my watch. Sunrise was perhaps minutes away. Alex switched on the radio. I sat in the darkness with my back to it, hearing only the falling rain.

  A sudden noise startled me, a lonely cawing sound that soon grew into a chorus. It was a flock of birds near the church.

  “Macaws,” said Alex.

  It was too dark to see them, but I had no trouble conjuring up the image of the big, colorful birds from my visits as a kid to Miami’s Parrot Jungle.

  “I wonder what startled them.”

  Their cawing ceased as abruptly as it had started. Alex and I stared into the darkness, trying to listen beyond the patter of raindrops. In the glow of our flashlight I could see the concentration on her face.

  “Do you hear something?” she asked.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the altitude or the simple effects of rainfall, but I was having trouble discerning anything. “Maybe like a shuffling?”

  “More like a squish-squish to me.”

  Alex bristled, listening more closely. Now I could hear it, too. It sounded like footsteps. She reached for her knapsack, where she kept her gun.

  “Buenos dias.”

  The voice had come from total darkness. Alex shone her flashlight, revealing a man beneath an umbrella.

  “Stop right there,” she answered in Spanish.

  He stopped about ten meters away. His eyes narrowed, as both Alex and I had our flashlights trained on his face. Shiny drops of rain dripped from the rim of his black umbrella.

  “You are the Rey family, I presume?”

  She asked, “Who wants to know?”

  “Joaquin.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m here to pick up the money for Matthew. My name is Father Balto.”

  I looked at Alex, not quite believing. “A priest?”

  Alex slipped her hand inside her bag, grasping her gun. It was obvious that she didn’t take anything at face value.

  “Come forward, Padre. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Why don’t we go inside the church, where it will be warm and dry?”

  “We’re waiting for a radio transmission at sunrise.”

  “There will be no transmission this morning,” he said. “They’ve sent me for the money.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think we’ll wait here a few minutes to make sure.”

  He shrugged and said, “I’ll wait inside. Please come visit when you’re satisfied that I’m speaking the truth.”

  He turned and walked away, back into the darkness of the falling rain, beyond the reach of our flashlights.

  We waited for nearly an hour past sunrise. The rain continued. The sky brightened slightly, but the sun never really came. No message came either. The radio was silent.

  We gathered our equipment and headed for the church. The main doors were locked, but we found a side entrance with a bell beside it. I rang it twice. Father Balto answered, clearly having expected us.

  “I spoke the truth, no?” he said as he led us to a small room off the vestibule.

  Perhaps he had been truthful about the kidnappers, but he’d lied about it being warmer and drier inside. The stone walls were moist with condensation, and with our coats off it actually felt colder and damper in here. We sat around a simple wooden table that had been worn smooth around the edges from decades of human touch. A cluster of three candles burned in the center, a meager enhancement to the glow of one burning bulb in an eight-socket chandelier overhead.

  Alex took a few minutes to explain who we were, how my father had been kidnapped, the details of the communications so far. Then it was Father Balto’s turn.

  “I was contacted on Friday,” he said. “They asked me to act as intermediary.”

  “The Catholic Church allows this?” I said.

  “It’s fairly common,” said Alex.

  “We do it for humanitarian reasons. Our only interest is in reuniting families.”

  “Did they give you any proof that he’s alive?”

  He shook his head. “My instructions were very limited. Go to the picnic grounds behind the church at sunrise and collect the ransom from the Rey family.”

  “We don’t have the money with us. We were expecting a radio contact, not an exchange.”

  “No problem. I’ve dealt with Joaquin before. It’s not his practice to come banging on my door for the cash a half hour after pickup. You and I simply need to set up a safe place for delivery. Where’s the money now?”

  “With all respect, Father, I don’t even trust a priest with that information.”

  “I understand,” he said. “You do have it, though, don’t you?”

  “We spent all day yesterday and a good part of last night converting the funds to dollars. We have everything we intend to pay.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Simply this: We don’t intend to pay the full amount of their demand.”

  He paused, obviously concerned. “That is a problem.”

  “I need you to pass a message to Joaquin. As far as we’re concerned, we’re still negotiating.”

  “I tell you this for your own good. I believe that Joaquin is through negotiating.”

  His grave tone chilled me. Alex seemed unfazed. “Tell him that we will pay one and a half million dollars, not a penny more. That’s a good price for a fisherman, even if he is an American.”

  “I can take your money, but I’ll be honest. Joaquin is so set on three million that I’m almost sure you’ll be double-dipped.”

  I asked, “What does that mean?”

  Alex said, “It’s a common ploy. The family delivers a sum of money to an intermediary, thinking that their loved one will be released. The kidnapper takes the money but doesn’t release the prisoner. The message comes back that you’ve paid only the first of two installments. Then you’re stuck delivering another ransom.”

  “How do you avoid that?” I asked.

  “You can’t,” said Father Balto.

  “Only one way,” said Alex. “A simultaneous exchange. We hand over the money at the exact same moment that they hand over your father.”

  “Nobody does simultaneous exchanges,” the priest said.

  “Father, I’ve been involved in enough kidnappings in Colombia to know one thing: Anything is possible.”

  “But a simultaneous exchange is very dangerous. So many things can go wrong.”

  “Are you sure about this, Alex?” I asked.

  “If we give Joaquin half the ransom he expects, he’ll either kill your father or continue to hold him until we cough up the other half. We have to tell him up front that one point five million is it. And the only way to make sure he doesn’t double-dip is to insist on a simultaneous exchange. Unless you can think of a better idea.”

  I looked away, uneasy. “Father, do you see another option?”

  He just looked at me, his eyes filled with pity, as if there were no right answer.

  “Then deliver the message,” I told him. “Exactly as Alex said it.”

  He grimaced, obviously uncomfortable. “I’d rather not have that responsibility. I fear the consequences.”

  “You’re our only connecti
on to the kidnappers.”

  “I don’t like to negotiate with Joaquin. He’s not like the organized guerrilla groups. He’s too. . volatile.”

  That gave me pause. We were dealing with a guy who made narco-guerrillas seem stable.

  Father Balto seemed to sense my anxiety and said, “This is what I can do. Joaquin is supposed to call me at noon. Stay here, and you can deliver the message yourself.”

  Alex looked at me, as if for approval.

  “Let’s do it,” I said. “There’s no place I need to be.”

  “I have a suggestion,” said Father Balto.

  “What?”

  “Mass is at ten. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I will.”

  69

  By the time the mass was over, the rain had stopped. We waited outside in the picnic area for the noon telephone call. A South American priest with a cell phone struck me as somehow odd, but I sensed he had it for a very specific reason. Undoubtedly this wasn’t his first kidnapping.

  The cell phone was resting on the table between us, Alex and me on one side, Father Balto on the other. I watched without interest as a group of tourists snapped photographs on the observation platform behind the church.

  The priest seemed to have something on his mind. Alex asked, “What is it, Father?”

  His reluctance was evident, but curiosity won out. “Three million dollars is much money for a ransom. Even half that is much, much more than I’ve ever delivered before.”

  “This is not your usual case,” said Alex.

  “Your father must be very wealthy.”

  “He’s very blessed.” I preferred to sidestep the whole insurance nightmare, though I had a sense that he’d know soon enough. If Joaquin would ever call.

  It was a few minutes past noon, and I was getting nervous. I checked to make sure the telephone was on. “Father, are you sure Joaquin said noon?”

  “He’ll call. Don’t worry.”

  “And you’re certain he said he’d phone you? He talks to us only by radio.”

  “That’s because a cell phone isn’t an option when you’re calling from the jungle.”

  “So this means they’re in the city now?”

  “Definitely.”

  I asked Alex, “Do you think they ever were in the jungle, or were they just using the radio to make us think that they were?”

  “You never know. A straight criminal element like this, as opposed to one of the Marxist groups, is more often an urban operation. Unless they have some kind of working arrangement with FARC or ELN.”

  “So this is good,” I said. “They’re back to where they feel most comfortable.”

  “I suppose.” Her voice was flat, as if she sensed that I was reaching too far for anything positive.

  The phone rang, and I nearly jumped. The priest answered and gave me a nod, confirming that it was Joaquin. He spoke in such rapid Spanish that I didn’t catch every word, but I detected considerable pleading in his tone. His hand was shaking as he handed the telephone to Alex.

  “God be with you,” he said.

  Alex held the phone just far enough away from her ear so that I could lean close and listen. “Good afternoon,” she said amicably.

  “Where’s the money?” he replied.

  “In a very safe place. We have one and a half million dollars for you.”

  “Congratulations. That’s just enough to get him back dead.”

  That made my stomach flop. Alex said, “Listen to me, Joaquin. This is a good-faith offer.”

  “I’m tired of this stalling. I don’t know if it’s you or the insurance company, but either way I’ve had enough.”

  “You have no idea what’s going on with the insurance.”

  “I know it’s a three-million-dollar policy. That’s all I need to know.”

  “It’s blown up in everybody’s face. Jaime’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “He killed himself. It’s over. The family was able to get you one and a half million. It’s all you’re going to get.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “Don’t be a pig. It’s all yours, all one and a half million. There’s no kickbacks, no one you have to split it with. I’m serious. Jaime’s dead.”

  There was silence on the line. Finally he said, “If you’re lying to me. .”

  “I’m not lying. Get on the Internet, check yesterday’s Miami Herald.”

  Again he paused. I was biting my lip, not sure that Alex had played the right card by dragging Jaime’s death into this.

  “All right,” he said. “Give the money to the priest. If Jaime’s really dead, I’ll let the prisoner go.”

  “No.”

  “No?” he said, his voice rising with anger.

  “We’re doing a simultaneous exchange.”

  “Never.”

  “Then you don’t get your money.”

  “Then I kill the prisoner.”

  “Then I repeat, you don’t get your money.”

  “This was not the deal, damn you!”

  “It’s the deal now.”

  “Then there’s no deal!”

  “Come on-”

  “No, it’s over! This guy has been trouble from the beginning. That was my fifteen-year-old cousin that got shot and killed by his Nicaraguan piece-of-trash crewman in Cartagena. I’ve had to watch him constantly, feed him, clothe him, put up with his disrespect. I couldn’t get a fair price from FARC, couldn’t get half a fair price from ELN, and now you want to shortchange me? Forget it. I’m done. We’re done. He’s done.”

  “Wait,” Alex said, but the line clicked.

  I’d heard it all, my ear practically pressed against hers. I pulled away slowly, the sound of dead air from the telephone humming between us.

  70

  Matthew heard footsteps in the hallway, then shouting outside his closed door. He recognized the voices, the wild tempers. Evidently drugs were as plentiful here as in the mountains. As the lock on the door rattled open, he braced himself for the worst.

  “?Gringo!” Joaquin shouted.

  The light switched on, but the sudden brightness was an assault on his eyes. He felt snow-blind to his surroundings as he sat up and shaded his eyes with chained hands. His vision was just beginning to return when, seemingly out of nowhere, a callused hand slapped him across the head and knocked him to the floor.

  “Get up!”

  Matthew lay motionless. Joaquin grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the wall. Matthew was like a dog on a short leash, his body jerking in midair as the chains went taut.

  The fall had hurt his shoulder, and he heard himself groan. He heard laughter, too, and as his sight returned, he saw Cerdo and another guard standing in the doorway. It had been the same way in the mountains, when they’d thrown him in the hole. Punishment of the prisoners was the guerrillas’ chief source of entertainment. Cerdo and his buddy were passing a bottle of rum between the two of them as Joaquin ran the show.

  “How much was your policy worth?” shouted Joaquin.

  “What policy?”

  He kicked him in the groin. Matthew nearly blacked out, then struggled through it.

  “Don’t lie to me! I know about Quality Insurance Company. How much was it?”

  Matthew could barely breathe, let alone answer. But if Joaquin knew the company name, there was no sense in playing totally dumb. “A couple hundred thousand.”

  Joaquin kicked him again, this time in the kidney. The pain shot in all directions. Another kick like that and Matthew feared it would kill him.

  “It’s three million!” said Joaquin.

  “Whatever you say.”

  He grabbed Matthew by the hair-long, greasy locks that sorely needed shampoo. “It’s not whatever I say. It’s three million!”

  Matthew didn’t answer.

  Joaquin seized his prisoner by the jaw, forcing him to look him in the eye. “I should kill you now,” he said, snarling.

&nbs
p; Matthew stared right back, more than matching the contempt of his captor. Joaquin shoved him down to the floor.

  “Unchain him.”

  On command, Cerdo rushed over with the keys. He was staggering, too much to drink. He rested the near-empty bottle of rum on the bed, then knelt down to unlock the cuffs.

  Matthew’s mind raced, sorting through his limited options. This seemed to be the end of the line. After that speech from Cerdo the other day, he was certain that they were going to take him out to some alley, pump a dozen bullets into his face, and dump his body in the street. His fate seemed to be a pauper’s grave, an unidentified corpse. He could go peaceably, or he could make good on the promise he’d made to himself when they’d left the mountains, when Cerdo had called out to Nisho, taunting the woman he and his buddies had gang-raped, “Nishooooooo, I love you!”

  Nothing would have been better than to take out Cerdo and Joaquin. But this might be his only opportunity. He’d settle for just Cerdo.

  The moment the chains loosened he shook free and grabbed the bottle of rum. In a blur, he slammed it against Cerdo’s skull and burrowed the jagged glass into his neck, pushing down hard, twisting and turning the razor-sharp edges, gouging right at the carotid artery until his hands were covered in red.

  Cerdo squirmed and screamed in pain, blood gushing from his neck like a fountain. Joaquin slammed Matthew across the side of the head and knocked him to the floor. Cerdo rolled to one side, grabbing his throat, but the bleeding was unstoppable. The blood ran through his fingers and soaked his shirt. A huge crimson puddle covered the floor.